"He is very much to be pitied," Wrayson said seriously. "I, at any rate, can feel for him."
He turned towards her as he spoke, and his words were charged with meaning. She began quickly to speak of something else, but he interrupted her.
"Louise," he said, "is London so far from St. Étarpe?"
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I think that you know very well," he answered. "I am sure that you do. At St. Étarpe you were content to accept what, believe me, is quite inevitable. Here—well, you have been doing all you can to avoid me, haven't you?"
"Perhaps," she admitted. "St. Étarpe was an interlude. I told you so. You ought to have understood that."
They entered the Park, and Wrayson was silent for a few minutes. He led the way towards an empty seat.
"Let us sit down," he said, "and talk this out."
She hesitated.
"I think—" she began, but he interrupted her ruthlessly.